


Lonely Nights at 12 Grimmauld Place

by breathing_and_stuff, YouBlitheringIdiot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Marauders, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban, canon marauders, sad Sirius, thank goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-20 17:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathing_and_stuff/pseuds/breathing_and_stuff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouBlitheringIdiot/pseuds/YouBlitheringIdiot
Summary: This was inspired by @breathing_and_stuff's drawing called Lonely Nights which is utterly beautiful, so poignant and so bloody sad, I got the feels and had to write this - you are incredibly talented and I am in awe of you.





	1. Lonely Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathing_and_stuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathing_and_stuff/gifts).

> You should check out @breathing--and-stuff's tumblr, her art is stunningly good

Lonely Nights at 12 Grimmauld Place

This wretched house is tainted with bad memories, he can practically hear his mother ranting at him, he flinched when he dropped his cup of tea earlier on, expecting her to scream at him_. Loser! Disgrace! Traitor! Disappointment! Scum! _She’s dead, but she’s still here, her voice inside his head, reminding him of things he knows already. She’s been dead for years apparently, but she’s still there, her portrait sneering at him, her eyes following him no matter where he goes, screaming obscenities at him, despite his attempts to blast it into hell and lock it behind thick curtains. Somehow she still manages to free herself and shout at the top of her lungs, did he subconsciously not fully close the curtains, because he deserves to hear this, because he deserves to be treated badly, deserves to be called every name under the sun? He knows he does. Maybe she was right all along. He is a disaster.

“There’s no need to tell me, I know what I am, Mother,” he says, his voice so full of hate and bitterness. And tired. So tired.

He cannot sleep.

“Don’t you tell me what to do, you disgraceful boy! How dare you show your face in here again after all these years? This house is not yours, you are not a Black, get out! Leave my house immediately! Filth!”

“Shut up, Walburga,” he says wearily, draining the remains of a double firewhisky and wincing as it hits the back of his throat, bringing tears to his eyes.

The firewhisky, not his Mother. Never his Mother.

“You disgraced us and ran away to live with those hideous blood-traitors! Where are they now, those Potters?” Walburga’s portrait says the name with pure hatred, her eyes taking on a wild, malevolent triumph. “Did they disown you too? Got sick of your abhorrent behaviour? Rejected you too?”

When she mentions that name, his mouth goes dry and he thinks he might be sick. He’s holding onto the tumbler so tightly it might shatter in his hands any second. He looks down at the ground. Potters… images of two smiling, kind figures, Mia Potter holding out her hands as though to hug him and Monty Potter grinning at him. The best people he ever met. Dead. Worse, he failed to protect their son, his brother, his family. He closes his eyes and shivers, sees himself entering Godric’s Hollow, as though watching a muggle film, sees James’ body on the ground in front of the stairs, Lily’s crumpled form in front of the –

“Fuck off!” he whispers hoarsely.

How many times had he replayed that scene throughout the years in Azkaban? It hasn’t changed, still crisp and vivid like it was the day it happened. A weight settles on his chest, as heavy as a casket.

It was his fault. He failed. He didn’t save them. It was his idea to swap secret keeper with-

An inhuman sound escapes his lips and he bows his head lower. This is what regret and anguish and shame sound like, he thinks. He can’t bear to think of this now. He can’t stand it.

“I’m right, am I not? Blood traitor! Stain of dishonour!” the portrait screams again.

His mother always succeeded in provoking him, as she meant to. His eyes flicker to the stairs, widening with fear, as he hears his Father’s heavy tread descending, purposeful and relentless. He grabs his wand and stands to face him, his breathing harsh and laboured. His hand shakes. What curse will Father throw at him this time? What-

He’s dead. Orion is dead, he reminds himself. He’s imagining things. Merlin, being in this place is making him go insane. Why did he agree to come here?

“Goodbye Mother, I might remind you you’re dead, been dead for years. Come to think of it, you’ve been dead as far back as I can remember. Hope eternity is treating you fairly,” he hisses through gritted teeth, as he walks away, ignoring her shrieks.

He smiles grimly. She never did like being ignored.

He sits down in the Green Room, beside the miserly fire, heavily, places the near-empty bottle of vintage firewhisky on the ground, a discarded earlier one lies there, forgotten. Like him. The fire is miserable, a couple of damp logs hiss pathetically, a few sparks flutter, then go out. It’s cold. He doesn’t try to use a heating charm.

He shivers. The cold reminds him of Azkaban. If he sleeps, he is there, and he can’t and won’t go back.

The nights are lonely in Grimmauld Place. He cannot sleep.

He supposes he was right, offering to leave this house at the disposal of the Order. What else can he offer? He’s useless and a burden to his friends, unable to join them on missions when every single fibre of his being screams at him to fight, revenge for his dead brother, his loved like a sister, his adored Godson left orphan. Anything not to be cooped up in here with his Mother and with his thoughts.

He cannot bear to think of Regulus, yet every day he walks into and out of his bedroom and passes his little brother’s room. The little Death-Eater. Who he also failed to save. It is empty now.

“It’s to help Harry,” he whispers to himself. “Harry.”

He loves that boy with a burning, protective fire so strong it surprises even him. It’s the only thing keeping him here, making him stay. Harry, and Remus. He can hardly say his name without feeling a pain in his chest. How could he ever have suspected Moony of being the spy? He can see why Remus would have believed he was the traitor (even though his heart breaks every time he thinks about that). Remus was nothing but loyal, never once let him down, yet he still suspected him of betrayal. Who is he to feel resentment or anguish if his ex-lover thought the same thing?

Remus and he have not really spoken properly, not in a long time. They hugged desperately, so tightly he thought he might burst with gladness, in the Shrieking Shack. But afterwards? They find it hard to talk. He catches Remus looking at him. Sometimes he’s sure those looks are more than pity. But he pushes those thoughts, wishes, away. He cannot hope that Remus would ever have him back. How do you begin to speak, to heal from this? He tried to apologise to Remus, numerous times, but his friend won’t hear it, teetering between shouting at him or crying, sometimes grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, the only times they’ve touched.

“It’s not your fault, Pads!” he says, unable to speak coherently, as though his voice is failing him. “I should never have believed Dumbledore, anyone, I should never…”

But he knows it is.

Dumbledore was a bastard though. Still is. But he’s their best weapon in the fight to protect Harry. He’ll do anything for Harry. He didn’t mind living on rats, vermin, got a sort of morbid joy out of killing them, shaking them viciously in his mouth, imagining Pettigrew in his grasp, the biggest bastard. They couldn’t kill him, not with Harry looking at them, the spitting image of Prongs, telling them his Father would not have approved. Harry watching him with Lily’s vivid eyes, taking his breath away. It wouldn’t bring them back.

He looks down at the precious mirror in his hand. In case Harry needs him. In case he calls. He desperately wants to talk to him. But he won’t risk contacting the boy. Harry is busy. He doesn’t want to burden him. He always holds it close though. Ready if he’s needed. He’d go to hell and back for him.

A lit cigarette between his fingers, ash falls onto the floor. A log breaks and crackles, then goes quiet. Nobody is there.

The nights are lonely in Grimmauld Place. And cold. He cannot sleep.

He looks at the mirror and he hears Prongs laughing, calling his name. Too painful still, those happy memories. Does Pettigrew ever think about their time in Hogwarts? Like brothers? The three of them becoming Animagi for Remus, James never believed that one of his friends could have been the spy.

“I miss you, Prongs,” he says quietly.

He misses Remus too, but he won’t go near him now, he doesn’t deserve him.

He holds onto the mirror tightly, this one thing he can do for his Godson. If he could die to save him, at least he could face them, when he meets Harry’s parents again. As things stand, he’s scared of dying, scared at the thought of what they’ll say to him, how they might look at him. He shivers violently. He saw them in his cell, Mia and Monty Potter, James and Lily, when he was in Azkaban. It wasn’t real, he knows that now, but he’s still haunted by it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

He bows his head down low, disgusted by his self-pity. He holds the mirror close, it’s curved sides somehow comforting. On stand-by.

When he’s completely exhausted, he’ll turn into Padfoot and try to sleep fitfully, try not to dream, a guard dog separated from his family. A guard dog that let the enemy in.

“I’m so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is too bloody sad, does anyone want another chapter with a bit of Wolfstar? I'm happy to consider it if so...


	2. Shortcomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus walks in on Sirius...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who wanted to stop sobbing...!

Chapter 2: Shortcomings

Remus watches him, the way his bony knees and arms poke through the material of his pyjamas, the way he hangs his head, his black hair lacklustre now, the way his elegant wrists droop. It hurts to see his friend like this. What being back here is doing to him. The fact that Sirius is reduced to wearing his old clothes, those formal, stiff, expensive Black robes, the clothes he last wore when he was sixteen years old. The fact they fit him too. He rebelled against all this. And now it seems to Remus that Walburga’s got her claws into Sirius again. He may as well have swapped one set of prison robes for another.

He’s been unable to talk about what happened that Halloween night, or anything since then. He couldn’t. His mind as closed and shut off from his emotions as a grave. He was always good at that, at keeping secrets, at keeping his feelings, the truth, under wraps. He’s been terrified of all that storm inside him being set loose, afraid it will destroy him. If he allows himself to feel, how can he bear it? It would be like inviting the wolf for supper. He tried, went as far as opening his mouth. But words refuse to crawl out, his chest as tight as steel chains that keep the wolf in check. He has been weak. Too afraid of the pain that speaking it will bring, so much more real that a voiceless memory in his head. And he’s a coward for being afraid to see the depth of Sirius’ suffering. Because it is his fault that Sirius lived that hell for twelve long years.

He didn’t cry when he found out about James and Lily and he hasn’t been able to cry since. 

But here, now, after months of silence, this man so broken in front of him? This is too much.

Something inside him snaps, he can’t stand seeing Sirius like this, he can’t bear it for a second longer.

“Sirius,” he says softly.

The other man doesn’t move, he thinks he’s hearing things again.

“Padfoot!” he says.

Sirius looks up at him, through his hair, with those haunted eyes and Remus moves. He’s on the ground, on his knees in front of Sirius, the other man looking at him in fear, as though he’s lost his mind.

“Sirius!” he says again. “Sirius!”

It’s like he can’t stop saying his name. Like he’s begging. Sirius stares at him, with his sunken eyes, still that same grey colour that makes his heart flutter.

“I don’t know where to start,” he says, his voice is halting and he’s trembling like a leaf, he mustn’t mess this up. “I don’t know how to help you. I want to. So very much. I can’t … please let me!”

And Sirius says nothing, and it breaks his heart to see this man who could never shut up, with his saucy comebacks, his flippant quips, his impulsive outbursts. Nothing.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, looking into those eyes he thought he’d lost forever.

“I thought I’d lost you forever. I thought… I thought it was just me,” he says it gently, tenderly removing the cigarette butt from Sirius’ cold fingers.

Somehow his fingers stay there, tethered to his, firmer now, like being closer to the love of his life gives him courage.

“I should have known it was never you, I think a part of me always refused to believe it. I have no excuse for why I didn’t try to get you out, why I let you rot in that hell-hole for all those years, when you were innocent…”

He chokes and closes his eyes, gripping Sirius’ fingers so tightly, tears streaming down his face, but he cannot stop now.

“Don’t,” Sirius’ voice is barely audible, but he’s leaning forwards now.

“Let me, please!” Remus says, gritting his teeth like this is physically painful. “I never stopped loving you, even when I thought it was you, dreaming about you surrounded by…”

He shudders. _Dementors._ He can’t bring himself to say the words.

Sirius is biting his lower lip and there are tears in his eyes too now.

“Hush,” he whispers. “You weren’t to know.”

“I should have known, Sirius,” Remus’ voice is ragged, rage against himself and Dumbledore and the world.

“I…” Sirius starts.

“None of us guessed that Pettigrew was the spy, not one of us! Not James or Lily, Dumbledore, none of the Order, not me either!” he implores. “Not a single person. How could you have known?”

Overcome, Remus pulls Sirius closer, wraps his arms around him, wanting him to know. They’re both kneeling on the floor now. He presses his face into Sirius’ hair, breathing in.

“I missed you so much.”

He says it like a prayer, fervently. Sirius does not reply, but slowly his arms find their way around Remus’ shoulders, his head resting on Remus’ chest, before he knows it, and suddenly he’s grasping at Remus so tightly, feverish almost, like he’s holding on for dear life. Which is the truth.

“Don’t ever let me go, Pads,” Remus can hardly get the words out, his throat constricted, his chest hurts with gladness. “I can’t do this on my own, I need you. I need you more than you’ll ever know. Do it for me.”

He hears Sirius’ breath hitch. Then a faint sob escapes.

“I’m not who I was,” Sirius whispers. “I can’t help thinking I deserved it, all of it, for being so blind. I’m broken, you deserve -“

“Don’t you dare tell me who I do or don’t deserve,” Remus whispers back, but this time the fury is gone, replaced by tenderness. “I won’t have us both dying here quietly. You deserve better, and damn it, so do I. I spoke to Poppy, I gave her books on the effects of war, of trauma. She’s done some courses now. We’re going to heal, you and I, together.”

Sirius won’t look at him.

“Pads, look at me,” he says, in his low, commanding voice.

Sirius looks up at him, slowly, haltingly, through his dark hair. Remus shoots a wandless spell at the fire, and the room is bathed in a warm, rich glow, it looks red, almost reminding him of the Gryffindor Common Room. He looks at Remus’ face, properly, as though seeing him again for the first time, takes in all the new scars across his face, the crinkles around his eyes. His tired, but fucking always beautiful, eyes. They look almost haunted. And his hair. How is he so grey? His fingers stroke Remus’ temple, a frown of concern on his face. How did he fail to notice the pain Moony is in?

“I don’t know how to do it,” he tries to say. “I want to help you.”

Remus laughs then, except it’s also a cry. He should have guessed all these months ago that the way to pierce Sirius’ soul was to expose his own hollowness, his own grief. All this time, stoically silent, not wanting to upset or worry Sirius, keeping all his own loss and despair locked away, behind a veneer of quiet nothingness. It had been killing him.

“I’m taking you away from this godforsaken place,” Remus whispers, bringing their foreheads together. “We won’t tell a soul, not Dumbledore, no one. We’ll tell them you left. As soon as this damned war is over, we’ll adopt Harry. Just like James and Lily wanted.”

Sirius knows it’s true, James had asked him. He can’t speak.

“Can you do this, for me?” Remus asks softly.

“Face my shortcomings in your merciful embrace?” Sirius says.

It sounds like a prayer, and maybe it is. Sirius is looking at him with the nearest thing to hope, to a real smile, that he’s seen on him since he escaped Azkaban. And Remus thinks_, if I can make him smile then I’ve won him over. _

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars,*” he says, smiling at Sirius.

His smile is warm, and kind, adoring even. And he’s looking at Sirius as though he’s beautiful, and precious. As though he loves him. And Sirius feels something inside him melt. He huffs a small laugh, swipes at the tears running down his cheeks. He can’t recall the last time he actually laughed, and when he looks back at Remus there is the vaguest glint in his eyes, the tiniest hint of the daring, risk-taking, impulsive, passionate idiot Remus fell in love with, all those years ago. And there is only one thing he can think to say. It’s the bravest thing he’s done in twelve years.

“Kiss me,” Sirius says.

...................

* Quote from Oscar Wilde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe @breathing_and_stuff's talent!! I can't believe she wanted to draw this beautiful picture xoxo  
\----  
I'm so honoured to draw an illustration inspired by @blitheringmcgonagall writing! LYSM <3 <3


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